


Won't You Show Me

by yekoc



Category: To All the Boys I've Loved Before Series - Jenny Han, To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before (2018)
Genre: F/M, First Time, Peter Kavinsky being unrealistically perfect, mild dirty talk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-29
Updated: 2018-08-29
Packaged: 2019-07-04 01:36:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15831072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yekoc/pseuds/yekoc
Summary: “Just don’t--don’t tell me it’sbad,” Lara Jean says. “Don’t make fun of me.”Not when you know what the real thing is like and I only have the bodice-ripping purple prose version, she wants to say. Not when I worry about that all the time already.





	Won't You Show Me

It’s the fault of the math homework, really. BC Calculus, which is significantly harder than Trig had been, and which requires Lara Jean’s full attention while doing homework. Even when said homework is being done with Peter Kavinsky’s warm body in the bed next to her, stretched out on his stomach and paging idly through a Biology textbook.

If it weren’t for how frustrating polar coordinate curves are, Lara Jean would have been paying attention to actually important things, such as the way Peter’s back muscles are easily visible through the stretched-out gym t-shirt he’s wearing. Instead, she’s flipping back and forth to the answer key at the back of the chapter, desperately trying to figure out how question 5 could really be C--really, not D? Is there a typo in the book?--and that’s why it’s already too late by the time she notices the book in Peter’s hand, Bio textbook now abandoned in a sad heap on the floor.

The book _open_ in Peter’s hand. A romance novel, of the not-for-young-adults kind. Of the I’d-rather-die-than-admit-I-read-these kind. Of the no-it’s-not-50-shades-but-it-might-as-well-be kind. You get the picture.

“Peter!” Lara Jean shrieks, and grabs for the book. Maybe it’s not one of the bad parts, she thinks. If only the whole book weren’t one big bad part. If only the spine weren’t creased at her very _favorite_ bad part, so that the book just kind of conveniently flops open there.

“You can’t read that,” she says, desperately, but he holds it up above her head. Even lying down--on his back, now, having twisted away from her frantic grabbing--he can keep the book away from her. It’s frustrating, and frustratingly hot.

 _Now is not the time, Lara Jean_ , she thinks to herself, and makes another futile grab.

Peter, still holding the book out of her reach, cocks one eyebrow with lazy delight. He clears his throat.

“ _She could feel the throbbing length of his manhood through the thin fabric of her dress, and the knowledge of his hardness made her nipples grow taut in response. He growled and pulled her skirts up until she was bare, thrusting into her precious flower_ \--you’ve _got_ to be kidding me!”

Lara Jean has a pillow over her head, but Peter’s laugh comes through anyway, bright and loud.

“How can you read this stuff?” he asks. “It’s so bad, Covey.”

Lara Jean thrusts the pillow away from herself and sits up. She can feel herself blushing, a hot burning on her cheeks, and she can’t work out whether it’s there because she’s angry, or humiliated, or both.

“Oh right,” she says, sarcastically. “I’m sure all the low-budget porn you watch is so classy, Peter. You didn’t even ask me if you could look at that book--it was private--and then you have to make fun of it, okay, I get it, I’m loser--”

She can feel her throat getting thick the way it does when she’s about to cry, and she puts her hands over her face before Peter can see. As if she wasn’t already acting insane enough. She doesn’t even get it, really, why it’s bothering her so much, it’s just that--she thought that maybe--

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Peter says, and his voice is gentle now, all the mocking gone. “Covey. Lara Jean. Hey. I’m sorry.”

She peeks through her hands, and he’s right there, so frustratingly beautiful even when he’s contrite.

“Just don’t--don’t tell me it’s _bad_ ,” Lara Jean says. “Don’t make fun of me.” 

Not when you know what the real thing is like and I only have the bodice-ripping purple prose version, she wants to say. Not when I worry about that all the time already.

“I wasn’t trying to make fun of you,” Peter says. He reaches for her hands, coaxes them away from her face. She lets him, and then he’s holding them, big hands wrapped around her smaller ones. He squeezes them, holds them out between the two of them where they’re kneeling on the bed now, looking at each other.

“Lara Jean,” Peter says, and quirks that bright smile at her. “I know you read romance novels. If it weren’t for your romance novel obsession, I might not be sitting here on your bed right now, and that would incredibly suck.”

Her humiliation recedes, just a little, shoved out of the way by the warmth that always wants to take over her body in Peter’s presence.

“I know I said it was bad,” Peter says. He still hasn’t let go of her hands. “I didn’t mean, like, you were bad for reading it. Or that that kind of book is bad. I mean, even if it were. I get the appeal of bad. I was just surprised, ‘cause that seemed like such bad _sex_.”

Lara Jean tries to pull away before she even realizes she’s doing it, stung with embarrassment all over again. Peter holds on to her.

“Hey,” he says, curiously. “Come on, Covey. I feel like there’s something you’re not telling me. I’m sorry I made fun of your hot bad sex book, okay? You still mad?”

“I’m allowed to still be _mad_ ,” she says, because Peter needs to realize that. Then she sighs.

“It’s the whole thing,” she says. “I feel like a broken record about it, okay? You’ve had sex, I haven’t. I guess this just reminded me. You know, like, Lara Jean is so dumb she doesn’t know what good sex is like.”

Peter opens his mouth, but she cuts him off.

“I know that’s not what you were trying to say. I just--what if the things I want are bad? What if I don’t know what I’m doing?”

“C’mere, Lara Jean,” Peter says, and she lets go and lets herself be folded into his chest, broad and steady. She can feel his heart beating. He talks into the top of her head, lips moving against her hair.

“I think it would be impossible for you to want anything I thought was bad,” Peter says. “I’m pretty positive about that, Covey, so just forget that, okay? Not even physically possible. The very fact of you wanting something would make it hot to me. Even if it was, like… furries.”

“ _Furries_? How dare you?” says Lara Jean, looking up at him, but she’s laughing.

“I’d wear a fur suit with you all day, bae,” says Peter. “I’d be so into it.” He smiles at her, bright and wide and guileless.

“Oh,” says Lara Jean. She turns her face back into his chest, breathes in the now-familiar smell of him, Old Spice and weirdly fruity laundry detergent and something old-sock-like that she’s beginning, terrifyingly, to find pleasant.

“So what was so bad about the sex in that book, then?” she asks, quietly, half-hoping he won’t hear her.

Peter doesn’t say anything, just strokes her hair.

“For real?” he says, finally.

“I won’t get mad again,” Lara Jean says. “Come on, Peter.”

“You’re allowed to get mad,” Peter says, automatically, and Lara Jean loves him for it.

“Yeah, I know I am,” she says. “Come on, just tell me.”

“Okay,” Peter says. He tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and leaves his hand there, thumb rubbing at her neck.

“The phrase ‘precious flower,’ first of all--”

“All the words for it kind of suck,” Lara Jean says.

“Vagina is totally fine,” says Peter, and Lara Jean had always associated that word with her dad and his medical lectures but, okay. Hearing Peter say it is different--thank god. It’s kind of, well. It has the potential to maybe be hot.

“What else?” she asks, to distract herself from that thought.

“I guess mostly the whole idea that, like, feeling his boner would turn her on so much he could just stick it in,” says Peter. “I mean, he basically doesn’t even touch her and she’s like, ready to go. If it were me--”

He pauses. His thumb stops where it’s making tiny circles against her skin.

“Anyway,” says Peter. “Probably not the world’s best sex, is all I’m saying.”

Lara Jean tells herself that she’s just asking it so that he’ll keep talking, so she can feel the way his stomach jumps against her side, so his thumb will go back to rubbing just under her ear where it feel so nice. She knows it’s more than that, though. It’s how safe all of this feels, how even when she’s mad at Peter and doesn’t know why he waits and stays and convinces her to tell him, gently and sincerely. Like he really wants to know, like he cares. Like she’s that important.

So she takes a deep breath and says, “What about if it were you?”

Peter freezes again, and then she feels him let out a breath.

“If it were me,” he says, from right above her, “I guess, you know. I’d make sure she was really turned on first. I wouldn’t just--I wouldn’t just go for it.”

“How?” Lara Jean asks, and she can’t pretend this isn’t happening, now. She uncurls herself from Peter, makes herself look at his face. He’s the one blushing, now, biting at his bottom lip where it’s all twisted to the side, and then he laughs and looks her in the eye.

“You want me to tell you?” he says, and she nods.

“Okay, Lara Jean,” says Peter. He leans back against her headboard, pulls him towards her.

“C’mere,” he says, and then she’s in his arms again, back against his front. His arms are around her and he’s resting his chin on her shoulder, talking quietly right by her ear.

“If it were me,” Peter says, “I’d make sure she was ready, you know? I wouldn’t just assume that just because I was hard--” and Lara Jean feels it, then, where Peter’s getting hard against her, “--she’d be into it, too.”

He moves his head a little so he can tuck her hair behind her ear, again.

“I’d kiss her a whole bunch, first,” he says. “Not just on the lips, either. I’d kiss her neck,” and they’ve done that a lot. Lara Jean loves it every time, and she shivers now when he kisses her there, open-mouthed and slow. He lingers, kisses her again. She feels the scrape of his teeth, and then he pulls away.

“I’d kiss her neck until she was making those little sounds, like the ones you make, Lara Jean,” he says, and then his mouth is back, hot and wet, and Lara Jean can hear herself making those noises, little gasps.

“Yeah,” Peter says. “Just like that, Lara Jean.”

“In that book it said her nipples were hard,” Peter says, and Lara Jean can’t help it, she looks down at her own chest--the sweater she’s wearing is thin and cheap, H&M, and if she can see it he must be able to, too.

“Which is good,” Peter says, “but I wouldn’t just notice that and, like, move on. I’d want to touch them.”

He pauses. They’ve done this, too. Not as often. Lara Jean nods.

“Yeah,” she says, when he doesn’t move. “Peter.”

“I wouldn’t just, like, grab them, either,” Peter says, finally, moving his hands so that he’s cupping her over her sweater, over her bra. She arches just a little bit, moving into him, and feels his thumb brush across the dimple of her nipple.

“I’d touch them really slowly, you know? Until I knew she wanted more.” He’s rubbing little circles now, his fingers teasing over him. Lara Jean hikes her shirt up, wanting more, and Peter makes a low noise behind her.

“Lara Jean--”

Her shirt kind of gets stuck under her armpits and she wiggles until he helps her out, pulling it up and over her head and off. She’s glad she put on a nice bra today, a lacy one she picked out with Chris, giggling, last time they were at the mall. It’s yellow, with little pale pink rosettes.

Peter hooks his chin over her shoulder again and she knows he can see--he has the same view as her.

“I’d want to kiss them,” says Peter, and he tugs at her bra cups a little bit until her nipples peek out, flushed and hard. He runs his fingers over them, lightly then harder, rolling them a little bit, and Lara Jean shivers. Her whole body feels tight, drawn-up.

“I’d kiss them the same way I kissed her neck,” Peter says, and shows her, kisses her neck again while his hands are still on her and Lara Jean can hear the way she’s breathing fast and shallow. It’s so good. All she can think about is the way his mouth feels against the skin right under her ear, how that would feel where his fingers are now.

When he pulls away she makes a little disappointed noise at the loss of it.

“Whoa, whoa,” Peter says, softly. “We’re not done here, Lara Jean, not if you don’t want to be.”

“What else was wrong with that scene, then?” Lara Jean asks, so that he knows she’s not done, either.

She hears Peter exhale, and then he kisses her neck again, quickly.

“I guess the biggest problem was he just went for it and he didn’t even know if she was, like, wet,” says Peter. She can feel his hot breath against her ear, against her neck where her skin is still wet from his mouth.

“I’d make sure about that,” says Peter, quietly. One of his hands has moved down, away from her chest, and he’s playing with the waistband of her drop-crotch sweatpants.

“How?” Lara Jean asks. It feels like her whole body is hanging, suspended, waiting for what he’ll do next. She shifts against him and feels it again, his dick where it’s so hard in his basketball shorts.

“Are you sure?” Peter asks her. They haven’t done this yet, not at all.

“Yes,” Lara Jean says. She is.

When Peter talks again he moves his hand at the same time, tucks his fingers under her waistband and rests them there, a promise.

“I’d be able to feel,” Peter says, and he moves his hand a little more and he’s right there, over her underwear. It’s just plain cotton, it doesn’t match her bra at all, and when Peter presses down, pushes the material against her, she can feel it get wet.

“Like that,” Peter says. She’s aching where his fingers are so close to her.

“I’d touch you,” Peter says, and then he’s pulling her underwear to the side, reaching in with his other hand. His fingers slip against her and she hears him make a low noise, a groan.

“God, Lara Jean,” says Peter. “I’d know--I’d be able to tell--”

One of his fingers brushes against her clit and it feels like all the need that’s been building inside her tightens, all at once, to that place: so concentrated it hurts, almost. She cries out with it, grabs Peter’s hand so it’ll stay there.

“I’d keep touching you,” says Peter, and he’s moving his finger now, back and forth, and it’s building inside Lara Jean. She tightens her hand around his wrist and gasps.

Peter’s still talking, almost mumbling, fast and desperate into her neck.

“I’d make you come,” he’s saying, “I’d watch until I was sure, I’d make it good for you, come on, Lara Jean, god--I wouldn’t stop--” and then she’s doing it, coming on his fingers, arching back against the solid weight of his body behind her.

He’s still murmuring as she comes down from it, trying to catch her breath.

“Hey,” Peter’s saying. “Whoa, hey. You okay, Lara Jean? You good?”

“Yeah,” she says, and cranes her neck so she can see him. He’s flushed red, and he’s smiling at her.

“That was previously unrecorded levels of hot, Lara Jean Covey,” he says. “For the record.” He extracts his hands from her sweatpants, and they trail wetness up her stomach. She shivers.

“It was a pretty convincing counter-argument,” she says. He’s still looking at her, and she feels shy, suddenly, over-exposed. She realizes that he still hasn’t--

“Should I, um,” she asks, and he looks confused for a second.

“I mean, your turn, right?” says Lara Jean.

Peter turns bright red. “It’s, ah,” he says. “I meant it when I said that was extremely hot, and--not that I wouldn’t, you know, want--”

“Oh,” says Lara Jean, getting it, and they both look at each other. Peter flushes again, and then he puts his arms around her, hugs her tight to him, hands clasped against her stomach.

“You good, Covey?” he asks her, seriously.

“Yes,” she says. “You might have ruined my entire collection of romance novels for me, though, so I think you owe me like at least four hundred bucks.”

“That is an insane amount of money to spend on books,” says Peter, and when she scrambles to face him and tell him how wrong he is, he grabs her face in both of his hands and kisses her, long and slow.

“Mmmph,” says Lara Jean, and Peter pulls away and grins at her.

“It just means four hundred insane dollars worth of scenes to re-write together,” he says, and raises one eyebrow.

“You know you want to, Covey,” he adds, laughing, and then his face gets sincere all of a sudden, one swift heart-rending swoop, and he tucks her hair behind her ear again. Nervous habit.

“You good, Kavinsky?” she asks him, because she hasn’t yet. Because this meant something to him--different things than it meant to her, maybe, but not less. She does know that, even when she forgets.

“So good, Lara Jean,” Peter says, warm eyes and tangled curls, and she trusts him.

**Author's Note:**

> Title vaguely from the Jenny Lewis cover of "Handle With Care."


End file.
